“Oh, do you know him?” asked Troubridge, surprised.
“We were introduced above stairs,” Sir Anthony answered, with a fine disregard for the truth, and went across the room to Prudence’s side. “Well met, my dear boy.” His hand pressed on Prudence’s shoulder to prevent her rising. “No, do not permit me to interrupt.”
At the sound of that lazy, pleasant voice a faint frown crossed Sir Francis’ face. He acknowledged Sir Anthony’s greeting only by a curt nod, and declared a point of five.
Sir Anthony stood still behind Prudence’s chair, and in silence watched the play through his eye-glass. The stakes had been raised at each new game; at the end of this one Sir Francis was most strangely a heavy loser. Either the young sprig from the country had played the game a-many times before, or else the Providence who guides the hands of novices had exerted herself most prodigiously on Mr Merriot’s behalf. Sir Francis was disinclined to believe Mr Merriot an adept: he had not the manner of it.
Sir Anthony moved at last, and spoke before Jollyot could suggest yet a fourth game, “Will you take a hand with me, Merriot?”
“I should be pleased, sir,” Prudence swept the little pile of guineas to one side.
There was nothing for Sir Francis to do but to go elsewhere. He gave up his seat to Fanshawe, and trusted he might have an evening with Mr Merriot some time in the near future.
“Why, sir, I shall count myself fortunate,” said Prudence.
Sir Francis moved away to a group of men by the window. Prudence turned to find Sir Anthony shuffling the pack. “Will you name the stakes, sir?” she said.
“What you will,” Sir Anthony replied. “What were they with my friend, Jollyot?”
She told him indifferently enough.
“Do you make it a rule to play for so large a sum?” blandly inquired Sir Anthony.
“I make it a rule, sir, to play for whatever sum my opponent suggests,” was the quick answer.
The heavy lids lifted for a moment, and she saw the grey eyes keen. “You must needs have faith in your skill, Mr Merriot.”
“In my luck I have, Sir Anthony.”
“I felicitate you. I will play you for the half of Jollyot’s stakes.”
“As you please, sir. Will you cut?”
It would not do to show a change of front now that the large gentleman had watched her at play with Sir Francis. Prudence fumbled a little at the cards, and displayed a beginner’s uncertainty. Sir Anthony seemed to be engrossed with his own hand, but as she hesitated once more over the five cards of her discard he glanced up, and drawled: “Oh, spare yourself the pains, my dear boy! I am no hawk.”
Prudence fenced cautiously; she was not quite sure what the gentleman would be at. “The pains of what, sir?”
“Of all this dissimulation,” said Sir Anthony, with a disarming smile. “I must suppose you were taught to play picquet in your cradle.”
Almost she gasped. It seemed as though John had reason when he said that large gentleman was awake for all his sleepiness. She laughed, and forbore to evade, judging her man with some shrewdness. “Nearly, sir, I confess. My father has a fondness for the game.”
“Has he indeed?” said Sir Anthony. “Now, what may have induced you to play the novice with my friend Jollyot, I wonder?”
“I have been about the world a little, Sir Anthony.”
“That I believe.” Leisurely Sir Anthony looked at the three cards that fell to his minor share. “It seems you lost no feathers in that bout.”
She laughed again. “Oh, I’m an ill pigeon for plucking, sir! I declare a point of five.”
“I concede it you, my fair youth.”
“A quarte may perhaps be good?”
“It depends, sir, on what heads it.”
“The King, Sir Anthony.”
“No good,” Sir Anthony said. “I hold a quarte to the Ace.”
“I am led to believe, sir, that three Kings won’t serve?”
“Quite right, my dear boy; they must give way to my three Aces.”
This was all in the grand manner. Prudence chuckled. “Oh, I’ve done then! My lead, and I count six, sir.”
The hand was played. As the cards were gathered up Sir Anthony said: “I take it so shrewd a youth stands in no need of a friendly warning?”
Certainly the enigmatic gentleman was developing a kindness for her. “You’re very kind, sir. I do not know why you should be at this trouble for me.” It was spoken with some warmth of gratitude.
“Nor I,” said Fanshawe indolently. “But you are not — in spite of those twenty years — of a great age, and there are plenty of hawks in town.”
Prudence bowed. “I shall take that to heart, sir. I have to thank you.”
“Pray do not. Plucking pigeons has never been a favourite pastime of mine... Well, I concede your point, but I claim a quinte and fourteen Queens, besides three Kings. Alack for a spoiled repique! Five played, sir.”
The game came presently to an end. “Very even,” said Sir Anthony. “Do you care to honour me at a small card party I hold on Thursday evening?”
“Indeed, sir, mine will be the honour. On Thursday and in Clarges Street, I think?”
Sir Anthony nodded. He beckoned to a lackey standing near, and sent him to fetch wine. “You will drink a glass with me, Merriot?”
“Thank you, a little canary, sir.”
The wine was brought; one or two gentlemen had wandered towards the table, and stood now in converse there. Sir Anthony made Mr Merriot known to them. Prudence found herself pledged to ride out next morning in the Park with a chubby-faced young gentleman of a friendly disposition. This was the Honourable Charles Belfort, who combined a passion for dice with almost phenomenal ill-luck, but managed to remain cheerful under it.
“Well, Charles, what fortune?” Sir Anthony looked up in some amusement at the young profligate.
“The same as ever. It always is.” Belfort shook his head. “Bad, very bad, but I have a notion that my luck will turn tomorrow, at about eight o’clock.”
“Good Gad, Bel, why at eight?” demanded Mr Molyneux.
The Honourable Charles looked grave. “Angels told me so in a vision,” he said.
There was a shout of laughter.
“Nonsense, Charles, they were prophesying your entry into a spunging house!” This was my Lord Kestrel, leaning on the back of Fanshawe’s chair.
“You see how it is, sir” — Belfort addressed himself plaintively to Prudence. — “They all laugh at me, even when I tell them of a visitation from heaven. Irreligious, damme, that’s what it is.”
There was a fresh outburst of mirth. Through it came Sir Anthony’s deep voice, full of friendly mockery. “You delude yourself, Charles: no angel would visit you unless by mischance. Doubtless a sign from the devil that he is about to claim his own.” He rose, and picked up his snuffbox. “Well, Merriot, I must do myself the pleasure of making my bow to your sister. Upstairs, when I was there, she was surrounded.”
“I’ll lead you to her, sir,” said Prudence readily. “At nine in the morning, Mr Belfort: I shall be with you.”
Sir Anthony went out on Mr Merriot’s arm. Halfway up the broad stairway he said: “It occurs to me you may be in need of a sponsor at White’s, my dear boy. You know you may command me. May I carry your name there?”
So she was to become a member of a club for gentlemen of quality? Egad, where would it all end? No help for it: the large gentleman overwhelmed one. She accepted gracefully, and then with a hesitancy not unpleasing in a young man looked up into the square face, and said diffidently — “I think you go to some trouble for me, Sir Anthony. From all I have heard I had not thought to find so much kindness in London.”
“There are any number would do the same, boy — my friend Jollyot, for instance. But you had better take me for sponsor.”
“I do, very gladly, sir.”
They came into the withdrawing room, where the crowd had dwindled somewhat. Robin was easily found, talking to an exquisite of advanced years. From the looks of it he was receiving some extravagant compliments. Prudence could not but applaud inwardly the pretty modesty of the downcast eye, and the face slightly averted.